


What Does it Take to Be a Saint?

by MultiVerSonalityDisorder



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: Action, Brothers, Children, Family, Friendship, Kids, Next Generation, Next-Gen, Post-Films, Sibling Love, Suspense, Twins, family business, fathers, what does it take to be a saint
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:12:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MultiVerSonalityDisorder/pseuds/MultiVerSonalityDisorder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quarter of a century after their escape from Hoag, the boys are back in town...with some help. Getting up there in age, someone new has to take the reins of the title "Saint". Boston holds tests and secrets that the MacManus brothers and Romeo never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Years Pass

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own anything from the Boondock Saints. I only own this plot and the new generation of Saints. Please Read and Review!

In the house of Pietro Moretti, there was a scramble of his men. An alarm had been set off in the deep recesses of Boston, Massachusetts, where a young underboss had established his palace. The Lombardi family was one deeply engrossed in human trafficking, so were the rumours flying through the pubs and bars. While Pietro was expecting a great amount of cash to flow in soon, he wasn’t expecting ghosts to visit him, especially when the past events of barely two decades earlier were just now settling down to become mere legends, urban myths. They were supposed to be out of the country after their daring escape from Hoag. Hell, even if they were back in the states, they’d be jumping into retirement age, as senior citizens. Not to mention, would they even make the mistake of tripping up on his alarms? Or, was it merely a ploy?

 “Damn it, man, would you move your ass outta my face?”

 “ ‘ow ‘bout ye get yer face outta me ass?”

 Harsh whispers echoed in the air vents, a very familiar scene that could only hold the slightest hint of nostalgia. Two young male bodies, barely budding into manhood crawled along, trying to pinpoint the correct spot in which their target should be located. “Should” being the key word, as by now with the alarm having gone and blown their cover, who knows where the bastard was by now.

 “I c’n’t believe yer such a klutz.”

“Hey, it wasn’t me who set off the snitch bell. Had to have been you.” 

“Don’t get me started, ye brat.” 

“ _You_  don’t get  _me_ started, pussy.” 

There was a quick motion of a fist trying to throw back farther than it could reach, and then a covered curse from the owner, leading the way with his voice being a tad deeper than other’s. This was planned out, supposed to be fool-proof…then again, when did a MacManus plan ever go the exact way they wanted it to? 

Then, a shot went off, and two bodies stilled. Another shot, and suddenly a fight was breaking out downstairs. With all those guns, the thought didn’t slip that perhaps there were more bodies than there were supposed to be. It was supposed to be one of the lenient nights since Pietro didn’t have any of his “stock”, but with as many shots and voices as they were hearing, unless the cops or someone else had shown up… 

Maybe this was a dud? Should they turn back and try another day? 

“Shit, ‘n we’re just ‘bout t'ere, too.” 

“We gotta get it done, man. If we leave now, and that asshole’s not dead, they’ll be ready for the next time. We won’t get another chance. We have to make sure he’s at least been put down.” 

There was a growl, “A’right, a’right. I hear ye. No need te ramble on like some sorta girl.” 

A muttered curse, and then finally they reached the open vent they were searching for. Just as gloved hands, an ashy gray from the light of the target’s office, worked on the screws, they heard a voice and stilled. 

“The fuck-?! You aren’t the Saints! Who the hell-?!” 

Another shot, and a scream. Whoever was there with Pietro didn’t say a word. Two more gunshots were heard, and he shouted out, “Fucking bitch!” 

A few more pleasant exchanges and suddenly the harsh and loud thump of a lifeless body hitting the floor. Was it Pietro? Or, the other person? Blue eyes couldn’t see for the life of them, but they couldn’t back out now, they were too far in, but now this was going to have to go by much faster than they anticipated, especially if Pietro was still alive. 

Three fingers went up to be seen by the young man behind, and the countdown went slowly, silently, and with a quick withdraw of the hood, the leader slipped his upper half down with his Taurus in hand, and just as he was about to pull the trigger (with the other young man holding onto the rope for when he prepared to land) he completely stilled as he gaped. “A girl?!” 

A youthful woman stood in the office of Pietro Moretti, sitting on top of his desk with his papers strewn about, his corpse face-first in his plush cerulean carpet; now drenched in his blood as well as the blood of his useless security that had barged into this classy space. Her hair was short and choppy, a dark brown as well as her eyes, skin almost like porcelain. Her attire was much like his, dark shirt, dark coat with a crooked collar, and a pair of denim jeans with a fine pair of work boots that even had him a bit jealous. She looked straight at him, not saying a word, not aiming her gun at him, simply chewing on what one would assume to be gum. She pressed a button hidden on the underbelly of Pietro’s desk, and the alarm silenced, she crooked a finger that beckoned him as he half dangled in his stupor, and with his gun trained on her, he slowly eased himself out. 

He released a grunt as his feet made contact with the floor, his strawberry tinted hair short and frayed back in the front, he stood almost an even six feet. He called up to the other who followed in silence, a sun-kissed young man, considerably shorter and almost a bit on the spindly side. His dark hair was held in a ponytail, the right side of his head shaved close to the scalp, his eyes hazel, and wary at the unexpected female. 

“ ‘n, who are ye?” the taller male inquired as he kept his weapon in place. 

She simply laughed, “The bitch that’s getting your job done for you.” 

The darker young man snorted, “You’re trying to tell me that you got all of these jokers down on your own? With no sneak attacks?” 

She shrugged, “I didn’t say no sneak attacks.” She smirked, “Yours are just outdated. Like your accent.” 

The Irish young man scowled, dropping his gun as he scoffed, “Sorry, lass, but I c’n’t take ye seriously.” 

She hopped off her perch, hands in her coat pockets as she strolled up to them without a single ounce of fear for her life in her eyes. She was smiling, holding back a fucking giggle of all things while this man before her was previously holding the gun in her direction. He could change his mind any second and she’d be gone, but no, she looked straight into his eyes, completely ignoring the fact that the other young male was there. Up close she could see day old stubble along the tip of his chin, and she puffed out a laugh. “You don’t have to take me seriously,” and almost in the blink of an eye, she grabbed at his wrist, feet slipping quickly so she stood behind him, twisting his arm painfully behind his back as she simultaneously removed his gun from his hand, pinning his wrist with her knee and body weight, her own toy with her free hand, a Beretta, and aimed in the other’s direction before he could even think to pull his gun out, “makes it easier for me.” 

While his comrade called out in pain, the lone intruder left held his hands up in defense, “What do you want from us?” 

“Nothing,” was her instant reply, before she flipped her gun in her grip and slammed the butt upside her captive’s head, making him drop, barely catching himself on his elbows, and further pushing him down by shoving an iron-foot atop his neck, daring him to make a single move as he groaned in pain. She returned the eye of her weapon towards the darker-skinned youth as her smirk deepened, “You know, it’s so convenient that these dumbass mobsters enjoy placing their mansions so far out from real civilization, y’know? Though, the cops will surely be on their way soon with how long the alarm has been going off and I’m sure the security company has already called them over, so we really should be heading out soon, don’t you think?” 

“You’re just gonna let us leave?” 

“Of course. Like I said, I don’t want anything from you guys,” she rose her gun, pulling the trigger and the bullet grazing the top of the young man’s left shoulder. He wailed, hand instinctively cradling the flesh wound. “That’s a warning shot. You guys can get a two minute head start out of this place while I take care of some things left behind here. Also, while you’re heading home to drink down your failure, just remember to not let your guard down around anyone, all right?” 

With a silent, pathetic nod, she released the other would-be assassin, helping him up in the roughest manner she could muster as she kicked him in the side in the direction of his friend. Her gun still aimed in their direction, she signaled to them to keep going, head out and watched them limp away. 

“T'is fuckin’ sucks,” the copper tinted blonde cursed. 

“No shit.”

* * *

 “I c’n’t believe it,” was a less than serious gasp, weighed with amusement, as the two young men strode into McGinty’s, battered with bruised egos. The pub closed for the day save for the three older men who sat at the bars. Graying hairs kept short and clean, beards managed, they were entering the heftier side of their life’s cycles, despite the attempts to keep their bodies in check. Some things were just inevitable with age. 

“Uncle Connor,” the taller young man shoved himself off of the other, stumbling a bit as he reached a stool, “we really don’t need yer sarcasm right now.” 

There was a trio of chuckles, the man in question sat in the middle; Connor MacManus. The man to his right waved the boy over, calling, “Aye, Declan, come over here ‘n sit wit yer da. Tell yer ol’ man how yer first time went.” 

Opposite side of Connor was yet another man who waved the tanned youth over, “Come on, Felix. Show me what you got.” There was a smirk on the trio’s faces as the boys went to their respective guardians, their father’s with a slump in their steps and shame in their brows. 

“So, tell us, boys,” Connor hummed before he took a swig of his beer, “did ye get t'a job done?” 

The two looked to each other, Declan rubbing his neck as Romeo inspected Felix’s shoulder. “Well, yes ‘n no…” 

“Hey, Gil!” Romeo shouted, and soon a nervous man in his thirties came waltzing in from the back; Doc’s only grandchild that wanted to take up the pub after the blessed man’s passing. 

“Y-Yes, Romeo-sir?” 

“Gilbride,” Murphy chuckled, “Just call him ‘Romeo’. Or, ‘Mexican’.” 

“Or, ‘Faggot’,” Connor added, as if they were discussing what to add to the menu for tonight’s dinner. 

“Eh, guys, chill,” Romeo snarled. “Barely back in the states a week and you’re already getting back to that shit.” He turned his attention fully to Gil, “Could you fetch me the first aid in the back? The room with the pool table?” 

“Ah, yes…er…Romeo…” the man, a soft ball of meat with blonde hair and green eyes; indefinitely Americanized; with the only thing relating him to his grandfather were the glasses, shuffled to the back to retrieve what was asked of him. 

“Now,” Murphy turned to his son, brows raising, “what do ye mean ‘yes ‘n no’?” 

“T'a job got done…” Declan was hesitant, but Felix was the one who answered the main question. 

“But, not by us.” 

“Who then?” Connor queried 

When the boys went silent, the men grew suspicious. Gilbride came out soon with the first aid, and Romeo went to work on grabbing some alcohol and bandages; the graze was simple, didn’t even need stitches as Felix lucked out. 

Connor ran a hand through his hair, grumbling, “T'a first time we go ‘n let ye boys out on yer own, ‘n come back a bit banged up, ‘n ye tell us t'at t’was someone else. Who was it?” 

Felix hissed at the sting of the cleanser on his wound, he bit his lip as his father chuckled, “Was this that person?” 

The Mexican youth nodded, “She said it was a warning shot.” 

“She?” it was almost in unison, with Murphy a bit delayed in the reaction. 

“Ye’re sayin’…t’was a  _girl_  t'at got t'a job done?” Connor spoke incredulously in the direction of his nephew. “Was t'ere someone wit t'a girl?” Jaw set, Declan simply shook his head as he avoided looking into the eyes of his uncle and father. He didn’t want to bear with the shame. “A  _girl_!” the man was flabbergasted but chuckles were lacing his voice, hands completely sweeping through his hair as he gaped. “We get t'ese boys ready, work’em fer years! Take’em on a few jobs, ‘n t'ey get beat up by a  _girl_?” 

“She knew,” Declan blurted out. “Somehow, she knew ‘bout t'a job. She got t'ere ‘bout t'a same time we did.” 

“Yeah,” Felix hummed, trying not to hiss as his father started to apply the bandage to his sensitive flesh. “She said our method was outdated.” He attempted a chuckle, “Along with Dec’s accent.” 

“T'at dirty whore!” Murphy hollered, fist slamming against the top of the bar. “ ‘ow dare she!” 

“Christ, son,” Connor looked to his nephew, face a shade of red as if personally insulted by the words of a young woman who wasn’t even there, “did ye get ‘er name? Any idea who she works fer?” 

The door opened, gaining the attention of all men present and just as Gilbride was about to announce to this customer that the pub was currently closed, Declan’s eyes grew wide as he cursed, “Oh, fer Christ’s sake. Ye gotta be shittin’ me!” 

“Hey, boyos,” she twiddled her fingers with a smirk. “Getting repairs done? I didn’t bash ya that hard, y’wimps.” 

The Saints grew tense, the twins slipped onto their feet with hands readying for their guns as Murphy inquired, “T'is t'a one we was talkin’ ‘bout?” 

“Yep,” she answered for them, arms crossed under her bosom as she cocked a hip out to the side. “Made sure to follow them here and everything. Not very stealthy, these two. But, what can you expect when they’re using such old references?” 

“What was t'at, lass?” Connor narrowed his eyes. “Do ye even know who ye’re talkin’ to?” 

“Of course,” she shrugged. “Ward O’Quinn. Or, at least that’s your alias coming back to the states after all these years, Connor MacManus.” 

“A’right, t'en,” he returned her smirk, chuckling in a dry manner, “what’s yer name?” 

“Brigit Ravelli,” she answered. “Your daughter.” 

The added part had the whole room confused and silent. Murphy looked to Connor, his brother standing frozen and horrified. The atmosphere completely thick and heavy on all.  
  
**-**


	2. Holy Hell and Fucking Shit

“Con?” Murphy’s voice was perplexed as it shook. As he kept his gun pointed at the lass, he jabbed a finger in the direction of his brother.

However, the other MacManus shook his head, brows furrowing before he looked back to this young woman named Brigit. “’ow old are ya girl?” he spat his inquiry, voice hard at such a statement.

With her arms still overlapping in front of her, she shrugged her shoulders with a tilt of her head, “I’ll be twenty-five in a few months.”

The young woman didn’t exactly look it. She seemed to be missing a handful of years, but perhaps that was the good genes her parents had possessed? The MacManus’s especially if she was telling the truth.

Murphy ran a hand through his hair, “Twenty-five.” His voice was airy, as if his vocal chords hadn’t even caught onto his words, “Before we left…?” He turned to his twin, snipping, “Who t’a ‘ell did’ya fuck before we left t’a states?”

“No one!” Connor growled, but this dragged an irritated scoff from the girl.

“Mom always said you guys had shit for memories.”

“Mum?” A brow rose.

“Obviously I would need both a father and a mother to even exist.”

“Who was she, t’en?” Murphy pushed. “What was t’a name?”

Round eyes narrowed, “Think about it. My last name. It’s hers. Ravelli.”

The twins looked to each other, Romeo keeping his eye on Brigit as the younger boys did the same. Hands cradling their guns, ready to strike if she made a single move. None of the men had any idea as to what her mission was. Confuse the twins? Try to take the Saints out? She was more than outnumbered which meant she would have to be either stupid or she had a death-wish, but that didn’t mean they could let their guard down.

Finally, it seemed to hit Murphy as he whispered, “Sera…”

Connor almost appeared quizzical before he realized it as well, his voice louder than his brother’s, “Serafina Ravelli.”

“Bingo, assholes,” was Brigit’s snide comment.

Quickly, Murphy threw a confused expression at his twin, voice lost and almost half-disgusted, “Ya fucked wit’ Sera?!”

“No! I would never-!” Connor paused, face freezing just as he smacked a palm upon his forehead, groaning. “Oh, shit!”

“Connor!”

The man scratched at his scalp, head bobbing from side to side as his face twisted in a guilty pain, “Shit, shit, shit, yes!”

“When did ya even ‘ave t’a-No! T’a boat, Con?! Ya did it back on t’a boat?!”

“It just ‘appened, Murph!” Connor swore. “We was talkin’, one t’ing lead to ‘nother, ya know how it works!”

“But, Sera, o’all people?”

“It’s not like ya had any claim t’er!”

“T’at’s not t’a fuckin’ point, ya retard! S’e was our friend! Didja even try t’be safe wit’er?!”

Connor threw his arms out, eyes rolling as sarcasm laced through his voice, “Oh, right, Murphy. I just happened to have left t’a fuckin’ prison wit’ a big ol’ bag o’rubbers!”

Murphy groaned, his gun falling as he began to grind a palm into one of his eyes with frustration, “Fuckin’ retard!”

“Don’t give me t’at! Ya was t’a one who knocked up ‘n decided ta marry Shavon!”

Murphy took a few steps towards Connor before he threw a punch. The man hadn’t quite expected it and needed a few steps backwards to regain his balance. Just as he was about to return the favor to his loving brother, the two were instantly separated as Romeo stepped in, arms out as he shouted, “Woah, woah, woah! Guys! Cut it the fuck out, a’right?!”

“Da!” Declan called out, earning Murphy’s attention quickly. The young man had a quizzical brow, biting the inner-side of his bottom lip and Murphy stepped back from his friend and brother, turning his attention back to the young woman.

He scowled, “‘n, tell me, lass. How do we know ya ain’t pullin’ bullshit outta t’in air?”

**To Be Continued...**


End file.
